Lucky, lucky

My dear Dad used to say, with a twist of his thin lips, "If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all." On the other side of the flipped coin, I have a friend whose favourite phrase is, "The harder I work, the luckier I get!"

I've been thinking about luck a lot lately, after hearing from another friend about the big inheritance she has coming. She was lucky enough to be born into a wealthy family. The money's not coming any time soon, but someday, and she figures there's enough of it that she doesn't have to worry about paying off her line of credit or her mortgage while she takes trips all over the world.

I think about her and then I think about the thousands of people moving to Canada from refugee camps in Turkey and Lebanon over the next month - the lucky ones.

The people in the refugee camps were lucky enough to be able and know how to pay the necessary bribes to get to those camps when the bombs came raining down on their homes and their neighbours and relatives were murdered.

They were lucky enough to survive years in the camp; lucky to have a metabolism that can survive on about 500 calories a day, and now, they have won the lottery and get to come to Canada.

They are lucky to have the chance to come to a safe but cold country where they don't speak the language and the food will be very, very weird. They have lost their families, their homes, everything, likely including any inheritance, and definitely their dignity, but they're the lucky ones, the ones who survived, who got out and get a lucky chance to start again.

All from the luck of where and to whom they were born.

Merit, Shmerit: fooling no one

I must admit to a certain amount of confusion and upset concerning the federal cabinet unveiled this week in Ottawa.

I'm heartened so many people gave some thought to the choices made, but discouraged how many people say gender parity automatically means less-qualified people running the joint.

Where was all this concern about merit in the last cabinet?
Or the one before that?
Or the one before that?
Not a peep about merit when Julian Fantino and Pierre Pollievre were added to the cabinet and we saw how that turned out. Or consider the meritorious Helena Guergis and her equally awesome cabinet-sitting husband. I don't recall anyone asking questions about merit when those two were close to power. Until they weren't.

Merit is another dog whistle for closeted racists and sexists. They know darn well they cannot say out loud, "I'm afraid of women running things," so they hide behind the word 'merit', ignoring the fact of masses of unqualified white guys getting most of the good stuff in our society for centuries.

If you worry about the qualified white boys losing out on what you see as their god-given right to better opportunities than other people, perhaps you can seek some counsel from the parents of qualified brown and black and yellow girls denied their fair share of chances for, well, forever. They might have some coping strategies you can employ.

And take heart, the finance minister is a white Bay Street insider who's sitting on an estimated personal fortune of 26 million dollars, so even if there were some broads in skirts sworn in this week, nothing at Parliament Hill has really changed.

Election Why

The complaints from my Conservative buddies at the return of a Trudeau to 24 Sussex Drive are pretty loud, ranging from 'we're screwed' to 'whhhhhyyyyyy??'
I understand their concerns, but I am baffled at how they didn't see Monday Night coming.

Maybe they're confused because their party was endorsed by a majority of the mainstream media outlets that do such things, (National Post, Toronto Sun, Globe and Mail) and they still lost, and lost big.

Even though Stephen Harper did the stuff conservatives feel should be done like cutting taxes and trade deals, they were sent packing this week in spectacular fashion and it's for the very same reason the PCs in Ontario were shut out in their last effort: you can be right, but most of us think you shouldn't be mean about it. You especially shouldn't be a mean, rude, racist bully (several other words deleted here) about it.

Americans think of themselves as exceptional and Brits think of themselves as self-effacing, but Canadians are known around the world for being polite; we say sorry to each other when we accidentally collide, for heavenssakes! Most of us not only like to think of ourselves as nice, we relish thinking that the rest of the world shares that view.

Former Ontario PC leader Tim Hudak was probably correct to say that the provincial public service could use about a hundred thousand fewer workers. But he came off like a jerk when he said it, and so now, a nice lady is paying ransom to teachers to stay on the job.

Looking back, you can see the mean streak from the beginning of Stephen Harper's tenure as PM with the early unleashing of those attack ads, but we all know it didn't stop there. It ended with his desperate move on the niqab, which is when finally, the nice people of Canada had had it with the meanness. We figure the ladies who wear niqabs have enough trouble on their plates and don't need any opprobrium.

At the end of the day, most of us want our leaders to reflect our values and I don't think most of us want to look in the mirror and see a big blue meanie.

That said, we don't want to see a moron, either. So, for now, unless and until he proves himself to be something else, we've picked a tall, slim, long-lashed fella with cut abs, some retro baggage, and a groovy wife.

About Betty

Today is a very big day for many of us: not just election day, not just a must-win game for our beloved Toronto Blue Jays, for about five hundred people in our area, it's the start of the curling season. The Collingwood Curling Club opens its season tonight.

Personally, I'm going to be playing four days a week and teaching on Sundays for the next 20 weeks, hoping to win back the women's championship.

The season will be different because one of my fellow skips will be missing from the club.

I was really looking forward to seeing Betty Rinaldo tonight. She has been one of the skips in the women's competitive league right from its first year. I've won against her and I've certainly lost to her, and every one of those games was a fun time, thanks to Betty's fun ways.

Betty is one of those people who you just can't NOT look forward to seeing again. She is one of those tiny women who get a lot done but who always look great doing it and seem to have an inner strength that propels them forward into the world with positivity and grace. I liked and admired her.

I found out yesterday that Betty died earlier this month.

I knew her well enough to ask her to be on my Friday night date-night curling team, but not enough to know that she was not well.
August 30th, she said yes to being on the team with Sweetie and me. September 9th, Betty sent me an email saying she wouldn't be able to be on Sweetie's and my team after all. She didn't supply a reason, and I didn't ask. I wrote back, "Rats, that's too bad, but we'll figure something out." I did not ask if everything was all right; it simply didn't dawn on me that there could be anything wrong with someone so vital and so alive. I just figured she had gotten a better offer, perhaps from a better team.

I should not have 'just figured'.

October 7th, Betty died at the Campbell House hospice. I was shocked yesterday when I found out she had been 79 - she seemed so much younger. I knew her well enough to know I wanted to spend my Friday nights with her all winter at the curling club, but somehow not well enough to know that she was sick.

I regret not saying goodbye to her; I would have told her how much I admired her fierce enthusiasm for life. She was fun and funny. She had awesome draw weight. She had a terrific laugh. She was what some people call "a pistol".

I will miss her. I already do.

Something this way comes - but what?

Something is afoot at the polling stations.

Beyond the story of who wins the federal election on Monday, the story of this campaign could well be the turnaround in the number of people bothering to exercise their franchise.

For years, democracy-watchers have bemoaned Canada's ever-lowering voter turnout.

In 2011, a mere 61 percent of eligible voters cast their ballots in the federal election.
Since 36 percent of those people voted Conservative, the Conservatives have had a majority of seats in the House of Commons the last four years.

This year, voter so far turnout is up. Way up.

Across the country, there was an increase of about 71 percent at the advance polls. The increase was 16 percent in Simcoe Grey, 54 percent in Bruce Grey Owen Sound, more than 30 percent in Simcoe North. Those are huge swings.

If the trend holds on October 19th, we could see turnout higher than 70 percent. It hasn't hit the 80s since the 1960s.

Generally, a big turnout is not great news for incumbent governments.
Not not always, but usually, increased turnout is actually pretty terrible news for an incumbent government. That said, the Harper Government is nothing like any other government Canada has ever seen. It might be that their base is so very, very motivated, they voted early so they could spend voting day making sure the rest of the base manages to get to the polls.

Or it might be that a long list of perceived infractions will bring a much reduced Conservative presence to the House, although no one is willing to bet on the caucus being as small as Kim Campbell's who suffered from the country's loathing of Brian Mulroney.

Strap on your surfboards, kids. There's a wave of some sort coming your way Monday night, and the evening will be a long and wild one.

Poking holes in a Paper Bag

It's not a dog whistle, it's an air horn, calling to the worst instincts we have.

Boy, I really hope this niqab thing is not going to be what makes or breaks this election, because if it is, I might have to start wearing a face covering of my own, out of sheer embarrassment for our country, like Leafs fans in the stands did late last year.

In Canada, you and I are guaranteed the right to believe any damn fool thing we want about our religion.

Head coverings, homeschooling, the golden rule, vaccinations: it's not up to me to decide what you believe about your religion, even if I'm not comfortable with it.

Our judges have said so, not once, not twice, three times now, and I'm hoping the Supreme Court of Canada will not even deign to hear this stupid argument about citizenship ceremonies - everyone identifies themselves beforehand-- there's no concern about identity at these things.

There are plenty of reasons to choose or dismiss any and all of the parties on offer in this election, but please, please don't let the niqab have anything to do with it. And don't be fooled by any politician who says they're concerned the face covering is against women; if they're so concerned about women, they might have done something to find out where thousands of female Canadian citizens have disappeared to, snatched from the streets while various parties were in power all these years.

Banning some offensive religious practices may seem sensible when it comes to the niqab, because the niqab is odious and awful. But this is the thin edge of an ugly wedge. Are the curls and hats of Orthodox Jews next to be banned? Maybe Catholics' trans-substantiated communion wafers make them cannibals?

Be careful what you wish for because it might be your faith that falls out of favour next time.

Adventures on the lawn

You know those days when you go past angry, take a right turn at crazy and force yourself to land on laughter so that no one gets murdered?

That was my yesterday, mowing my mother's massive lawn, or more accurately, trying to mow the lawn. I go there on Thursdays in the summer, so the lawn's done for the weekend. The last few weeks, my Moppets have been visiting; nieces and nephew tearing around the farm on a tiny tractor. A camera just can't capture the delight on their faces at the wheel.

Have you ever had that feeling when you're closing the door of your car and you suddenly realize, deep in your bowels, that your keys are inside? That's the frisson I had as I sat on the seat of the lawn tractor and put my hand on the key, the key that was NOT in the off position.

Yes, some little twerp, or possibly my mother, had left the key on, the life draining from the battery since it was parked.

"No problem," I thought to myself, "I'll just roll the tractor backwards, out of the shed, use my trusty jumper cables to boost the battery, and we'll be in business!"

Not so much.

Now, I'm generally a fan of safety features; my car doesn't move without the seatbelts being done up, I wear a helmet to ride my bike. But I'm not sure a safety feature that means a lawn tractor can't be rolled either forwards or backwards when the battery is dead makes much sense. There was a lot of grunting and groaning as I tried to depress the clutch/brake with one hand and push the tractor backwards out of the shed. Yes, I fell down. Twice.

So, a dead battery, the tractor deep in the shed, facing away from the door and no way to move it out. Into the shed I bring my car, open the hood and... where is the battery? I got a new car a year ago and have yet to need to boost it or use it for boosting.

There is no battery visible under the hood of my car. There's a fan-type thing, a place to put the washer fluid, many other things I don't understand and lots of heat, but no battery. It's a European car, same as my neighbour's, so I decide to look in the trunk, where his was when we boosted him a few weeks ago.

To get to the boot, I remove grocery bags, emergency equipment, a jack, washer fluid, mittens a blanket and snow brush, (see? Safety first...) only to discover the blessed battery is not in there, either!

The owner's manual is not of much assistance, but I finally figure out the battery is tucked inside a case behind a doored panel just below the windshield, on the passenger side, a lucky break because my jumper cables are not very long. I maneuver the car into the shed, as close as possible to the stupid tractor, hook up the cables, and voila, the tractor starts! It's like magic!

I figure I can leave the machine running while I remove the car, and get on with the job at hand, but safety got in the way again. There's a switch of some sort in the seat of the lawn tractor, which shuts down the engine if there's not enough weight on it. It's quite frustrating for my niece, who's not quite heavy enough yet to keep the motor running.

Two large chunks of wood wrestled from a far corner of the shed were not enough to do the trick, sadly, so I sat on that seat, bored silly, for as long as I thought it might take for the engine to restart once it was turned off. I even gave it a try after removing the jumper cables and before moving the car out of the shed, and it worked.

Once the car moved out, the stupid tractor wouldn't start, though, giving a little tiny and pathetic grinding noise before lapsing back into a sulky silence.

At this point, I'm thinking long grass might not be such a bad thing, and since I've been mowing all these years, surely Mom can deal with a scraggly lawn for a few days. She can just call the company that services the blessed vehicle.

Instead, I persevere, bring the car back in, re-hook up the cables, smash my thigh into a random piece of farm equipment nearby, curse like a sailor and sit bored and in pain for an interminable amount of time in the hope that this time, it will be enough to re-start the ding-dang lawnmower.

It worked, finally; I got out there to mow, and the tractor ran for nearly 10 minutes before it sputtered to a halt, out of gas.

sigh.
Of course.

I trudge to the garage, where my mother keeps not one, but two large portable containers of gasoline for this express purpose. Both of which are, as you might have predicted, empty, without gas, useless and as they say, 'drier than a popcorn fart.'

And that's when the zen kicked in. Up to this juncture, I had been alternately determined, annoyed, bemused and angry, but I found myself, with a bruised leg, broken fingernail and an hour behind schedule, bursting into laughter. What else is there to do, really, but load the Jerrycans into the car and fill 'em up? For fifty dollars, I might add, at the nearby farm supply store where the gas is never cheap, of course.

I managed to finish the lawn and it goes without saying that when I looked in the fridge, there was not even one single solitary cold beer waiting for me as a reward.